Stones of Seeing 3. Elrond Peredhel by clotho123

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Chapter 1

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The only stone left in the North was the one on the Tower on Emyn Beriad that looks towards the Gulf of Lune.  That was guarded by the Elves, and… remained there, until Círdan put it aboard Elrond’s Ship when he left.  But we are told it was unlike the others and not in accord with them, it looked only to the Sea.

 

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Elrond breasted the last rise, and saw what must be the house ahead of him.  It was small and pleasant looking, the half-timbered walls painted a pale shade of yellow.  He dismounted without haste, and only when he laid a hand on it did he realise that one of the trees by the trackside was not a tree, but a most lifelike representation of one.  He stood for several minutes marvelling at the minute craftsmanship that had gone into the bark and leaves, and wondering of what material the latter were made.  The trunk seemed to be of a kind of marble; but he had never seen anything like the leaves, which were not fabric, and yet no metal he had ever encountered, and had veins so lifelike that the eye could not tell them from the real thing.  Most remarkable of all it did not seem a dead thing, but one as imbued in its own way with life as its brethren which stood around.

 

At last Elrond turned, unstrapped the wooden box his horse had been carrying, and with a few words to the animal left it free to graze as he started towards the house.  He had not gone more than half the distance when he was brought up by another sculpture.  This one was a soaring thing of crystal and mithril, standing a little taller than the trees around, it represented nothing clearly, yet the whole thing seemed to speak to him of flight, and he halted again, lost in wonder.  It was only when he went to move on that he even became aware that another person had come up beside him.

 

She was tall, wearing a leather apron to cover her clothes, and quite unselfconscious of it.  The eyes that met his were a dark-brown, very rare in Elves, and her cheeks were darker than was usual also, with a ruddy, almost weather-beaten look. 

 

“Master Elrond.”

 

He did not ask how she knew him.  Elros and he had been very much alike.  Perhaps she had been expecting the visit.

 

“Lady Nerdanel.”

 

“It is a long road, if you have come from Tol Eressëa.  Would you like refreshment?”

 

“A kind offer, and indeed I would.”

 

They sat on a bench out of doors, overlooking a garden which held one of Nerdanel’s lighter conceits, a range of miniature, but amazingly convincing, mountains.  There was snow, to all appearance, on the higher peaks, and woods grew about the foothills.  He could even see streams cascading down the slopes.  Nerdanel brought cordial in green glasses and told him, “I regret there is no light food.”

 

“Perhaps you do not get visitors often?”  Elrond said, and then wondered if that seemed too probing, but Nerdanel did not take offence.

 

“Not often, certainly.  My parents and brother come at times.  And Celebrimbor.”

 

Elrond had already seen Celebrimbor briefly. Elven though he was, the sight of the dead alive was still a little disconcerting.  He drank thoughtfully from the cordial, wondering how far Nerdanel’s solitary life was by her choice.  How deep did old griefs still run in a land where so much was changeless?

 

“Have you been to the White Tower yet?”  Nerdanel asked

 

“Not yet.”  The White Tower in the North was the home of his parents, of Elwing and of Eärendil when he was not voyaging the skies.  Celebrían and Gil-galad had both told him he should go, and soon.  Still he held back.  They would expect a loving son, and he could not act that part.  The bond that should have been had been lost on the day that Sirion fell.

 

Long ago, in the wild lands around Amon Ereb, he and his brother had learned from wagging tongues how their mother had run to the sea, with the gem round her neck. Elwing the White had run from her sons, caring more to deprive the assailants of the jewel they sought than to protect her children’s lives. That was how the twins had worked it out, and although Maglor had told them it was not that simple, yet their young minds had wanted simplicity, and it was easier by then to feel blame for Elwing than for Maglor.  By the time Elrond and Elros were old enough to understand the tale was indeed not so simple, the damage had been done.  Their love for their mother had died.  Understanding might come with maturing, but love does not come for the asking.  He wished that it could.

 

Eärendil was not even a memory.  The star that bore his name was beautiful, but made it all the harder to think of him as kindred.  It was too high and remote, who could think of a star and a father together?  He had no wish to hurt his parents, but he knew he could not be what they would want.  So he delayed.

 

Nerdanel said no more on the subject.  They sat for a while in quiet, before Elrond said at last, “Lady Nerdanel, long ago you gave to my brother a gift.  I have come to return a part of that gift, believing it is for you to decide what should be done with it now.”

 

He opened the lid of the box he had brought, and within it the palantír of Emyn Beriad rested, peacefully enough, although as with others of its kind the surface was never wholly still.  He had never used them, never sought to gaze west to Valinor, although the presence of the stone in its tower had been well known in Rivendell.

 

“Is this the last?” said Nerdanel.

 

“No, not the last.  All reached Middle-earth, but two were lost in a ship-wreck and, a third fell into the Great River Anduin, long ago, when the tower in which it stood was destroyed.  One was taken by the enemy, and most likely perished when his Dark Tower fell.  Two more remain, in the keeping of the Heir of Elros, my daughter’s husband, although one of these I understand to have become somewhat intractable.

 

“This Stone was, for a reason I do not know, not in accord with the others.  It would look only West, and stood long in a tower near the Havens, from which it was possible to see at times the Great Tower on Tol Eressëa.  But the time for the final severing of the kindreds draws near, and I deemed it right for the Stone that had gazed so long West to be returned to its true home.”

 

Nerdanel lifted the Stone, and held it thoughtfully for a few moments, then returned it to its place.  Perhaps the return was unwelcome to her, or seemed simply purposeless, there could be no need for such a thing here.  Yet he still believed he had been right to come. 

 

“I must think on it,” she said.  “Decide where it would be best bestowed.”

 

Elrond inclined his head, feeling no need for further answer, and they sat silent again until Nerdanel said, “I had heard of your daughter’s marriage.  It must have been hard, to sail alone.”

 

“It was hard.”  Plainly Nerdanel had heard of his sons’ choice also.  “I had long known I would lose Elrohir and Elladan.  They were mortal at heart, like my brother Elros.  They fretted at the passing of the centuries.  I would have left and freed them before, but there was the Shadow, and my heart told me I had a part to play against it.”  So hard it had been, watching his sons’ unhappiness, their dislike of their unchanging lives.  Caught between mortal and elven kindred, neither could bear to wed.  Perhaps it was not too late for that, but he doubted.  “But Arwen… my daughter’s soul was elven.   I know it.”

 

He had never thought of himself as having decided to be elven.  He was elven, always had been, heart, mind and spirit.  And Elros had been of mortal kind, to the core of his being.  However great the pain of separation there had never been any question of either choosing differently.  But Arwen had chosen against her nature.  For love.

 

“Hard to lose children beyond the circles of the world,” said Nerdanel.  “And few here, I think, would understand.”

 

Yes, few of the Elves would understand such loss: without end, without hope of reunion, for all they could hold their anger through long Ages, as he himself had good reason to know.  Perhaps he did less than justice to the people of Aman, yet he still did not feel at ease here, for all the joy that had leapt in him when he saw Celebrían again. 

 

He had never longed for Valinor, and that was strange.  Unlike some of his kin he had not wished to govern realms, he had had no liking for adventure, and like so many Elves he did not care for change.  Unchanging Aman, with endless time for the scholarship he loved, that realm should have drawn him, and yet it never had.  Perhaps he was too mortal after all, or too much the heir of Fëanor’s sons. 

 

He looked at Nerdanel beside him, the sun striking copper lights from her hair, and he sighed, thinking of his foster father and his first liege lord, both loved in different ways, whom he did not look to see again and could not even grieve for cleanly.

 

That too had not been a choice, no-one save Elros had ever understood that.  He had not chosen to give his loyalties to the slayers of his kin.  It had happened before he was old enough to understand, and could not be undone, only betrayed.  Yet his grief must be a slight thing beside that of Nerdanel.  Seven sons lost to their own crimes, grown from their father’s madness. Worse than his own loss, and he and Celebrían could share their pain.  Nerdanel endured alone, but endure she did.  He thought of the joyful sculptures he had seen, and marvelled.

 

“Few would understand,” he said, “but some.”

 

“The choice runs in your line,” said Nerdanel quietly.

 

The choice of mortality; or did she mean the need to choose?  Both ran in his line indeed and he was not, after all, the first to endure such a loss. He wondered, not for the first time but with a new sharpness, if Eärendil and Elwing had wept when the choice of Elros was made known to them.  One child they might hope to see again, but not the other.  And if the tales of Eärendil were true then Arwen was not the first to have chosen against her own nature.  For love.

 

Did his father fret as his sons had done, against the passing of the centuries?  Was it harder or easier to lose forever a child lost already in childhood than to lose one who had been comfort and companion the space of almost an age?

 

Even in Aman not all griefs had healing.  Yet perhaps grief could be shared.  Was that not what had brought him here?  There were others who might mourn his brother, if differently, others who might understand the loss of his children, might grieve too, in their way.  If he could not be a true child to his parents he could, perhaps, share some understanding with them.  It might be something.  It might be better than nothing.  For their sake he should at least try.

 

Evening was coming close when Elrond rose at last.  Around him the air held the heaviness of grief, but there was a peace in it also, and an acceptance.

 

“I will come again, if I may,” he said.

 

“I would like that,” said Nerdanel.

 

He would go to the White Tower soon, Elrond resolved, but first he would return again to Tol Eressëa.  To Celebrían.